


Sempre

by BringtheKaos



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: But plenty of comfort to follow, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Hand Jobs, I Tried, I am once again asking you to forgive my failure to write Italian, I used google translate, Light angst toward the end, M/M, PWP, Post-Movie, Sort Of, The obligatory "return to Malta" story, There's like... a dash of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25482058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BringtheKaos/pseuds/BringtheKaos
Summary: Well, I thought I was done. I thought I got the JoeXNicky out of my system with the last one. But here I am, 24 hours later with a 2000 word PWP. Sorry not sorry.Once again, please excuse any errors, I do not speak a lick of Italian or Arabic, except that which I've picked up from Nicolo di Cinnamon Roll.I am doing as I did in the last one and putting translations in superscript, except for obvious ones and ones explained in-text.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 13
Kudos: 206





	Sempre

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I thought I was done. I thought I got the JoeXNicky out of my system with the last one. But here I am, 24 hours later with a 2000 word PWP. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Once again, please excuse any errors, I do not speak a lick of Italian or Arabic, except that which I've picked up from Nicolo di Cinnamon Roll. 
> 
> I am doing as I did in the last one and putting translations in superscript, except for obvious ones and ones explained in-text.

The first thing Joe registers is warmth—warmth _everywhere_. The air is heavy with it, humid and suffocating, but in the most familiar way. The single sheet does not provide much heat, only security, and most important of all is Nicky; all of him pressed to Joe’s front, and Joe has one arm wrapped tightly, protectively, _possessively_ around him, as he always does. One of his legs is tangled up in Nicky’s, and his beard scratches at the bare nape of Nicolo’s neck. His love has always run a few degrees warmer, and it has provided Joe with hundreds of years of “hot-blooded” jokes. But he wouldn’t have said blood any other way.

The scents of Malta assault his nostrils—ocean air and warm, ancient stone. Sand and wine. Coffee and car exhaust. It is familiar and brand new all at once—the boats in the harbor have grown in size and number since he and Nicolo were here last, as have the amenities; mass-produced, cliche beach umbrellas and air conditioning in every building, all of which caters to the massive influx of tourists.

But Malta is something else for Joe and Nicky, something old and comfortable and timeless. It is why they shut off the air conditioner the moment they entered the small room, flung open the doors to the balcony, and left it open all night. To them, Malta is not circulated air and an attentive concierge, fancy cocktails and staged photographs.

No, Malta is _theirs—_ a secret door in a library, a tree house secluded in the Black Forest, a catacomb undiscovered by mortal hands. It is a place the two of them have come to associate with safety, with normality, with _home_ , if a couple of immortal nomads can be said to have such a thing. It is where they go to level off and recharge, and take comfort in anonymity.

Joe doesn’t move, not yet, even though the muscles in his legs and lower back are itching for a good, dizzying stretch. No, moving would rouse Nicky, who is a notoriously light sleeper, and whose Glock G19 is only a fluffy pillow away.

Not that Nicky would ever make that mistake. But they’ve had an understandably jarring few weeks, and he wouldn’t blame the poor thing for panicking. Joe can’t get that image of Nicky with a gun in his mouth out of his mind. He sees it in his nightmares, he sees it in the rapid-fire darkness when he blinks. He’s trying to replace it with the image of Nicky smiling at him, sappy and lovestruck, the image of Nicky lying peacefully in his arms. He knows Nicky has noticed, seen the way Joe will jerk and blink the images away, startled by their sudden and unexpected recurrence. But Nicky has yet to mention it—ever intuitive, he will give Joe the time he needs to come to terms with it in his own mind, and only after he can rationalize it, then they will talk about it. But for now... there is no place for any of that.

He sighs against Nicky’s neck and uses the arm wrapped around him to pull him tighter against him. As he hoped, that slight movement pierces Nicky’s slumber, and he groans, barely shifting against the hotel-quality Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Mmm, morning already?” Nicky mumbles, his voice garbled with sleep.

Joe presses his nose to Nicolo’s hair and inhales, long and deep, cherishing the scent of the off-brand sandalwood shampoo from the hotel bathroom. It is such an odd thing, this moment of simplicity in a mediocre hotel, but Joe treasures it beyond reason. He’s seen his beloved covered in blood far too much recently, limping and coughing and groaning with pain. It feels like it’s been months since they took the job from Copley, but it’s only been days.

“Si, amore. Il mattino,” Yes, love. Morning Joe says, his own voice gruff. He knows it can’t be from the screaming he’s done in the last week, his vocal cords will have long since healed the damage... but it feels like it. It feels like he hasn’t spoken a gentle word in years.

Nicky groans, pushing himself back into Joe.

“Five more minutes,” Nicky whispers.

Joe kisses the nape of his neck. “We can stay in bed for five more _days_ if you want, habibi.” (Arabic) My Love

“I think Andy and Nile might notice,” Nicky replies, a smile evident in his voice.

“I put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door,” Joe says, following Nicky’s hairline up to place another kiss behind his ear. Joe doesn’t miss the subtle shiver it causes. “Andy knows what that means. As for Nile...”

He nibbles at Nicky’s earlobe. “She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.”

Nicolo shudders again, and this time pushes his rear back with very clear intention, beginning to lazily undulate against him.

They don’t usually book more than one room; the group sticks together at all costs. But the moment the hotel receptionist had asked a weary Andy how many rooms, and she had habitually snapped ‘one,’ Nicky made a sound deep in his throat that made her immediately spit ‘two.’

Being in a private room, they had slept naked. Both had met each other’s eyes the previous night, after their quick, shared shower, a silent question— _should we?_

But they had both been exhausted, anything they might have tried would have been either unsuccessful or very brief. So they had collapsed to the plush mattress, the fluffy pillows, and sank into sleep almost instantly.

Now, it appeared, the opportunity was rising again. Literally.

Joe groans as he feels himself beginning to harden with the languid, lovely movement of Nicky’s ass against him. He flattens his palm against Nicky’s chest, just over his heart, and revels in the reassuring _thump...thump...thump_ of his beautiful heart against it. It is a loud, constant reminder that Nicky is here, is solid, is so vivaciously _alive,_ and Joe thrills at the knowledge, testing a slow roll of his hips that slots his now fully hard cock into the cleft of Nicolo’s ass.

Nicky gasps, and Joe feels the beat under his fingertips quicken; _thumpthumpthump._

Joe rearranges, using his free arm to prop himself up, and leans over to suck hard at Nicolo’s neck.

“Does your heart still race for me, amore?” he asks against the spit-slick skin, but it’s not really a question. He knows the answer, for his own heart still hammers like a hummingbird’s every time they have this, every time their bodies meet.

“Si, caro mio, sempre, _sempre,”_ Yes, my dear, always, always Nicky keens, and Joe can feel him beginning to tremble with excitement, a hand coming around to grab at Joe’s hip and urge him forward.

Joe takes one last moment to admire the lovely beat beneath his hand, then slides it down Nicky’s abdomen, feather-light against the hair there.

Nicky pushes himself harder against him, and Joe grunts, the pressure making him see stars. He migrates his hand down even further to grip Nicky’s hip, holding him firmly in place, and begins thrusting his hips in earnest.

They both moan in tandem as Joe’s cock slides up and down Nicky’s ass, likely barely teasing his hole. Joe knows they won’t do _that_ this morning, at least not right now, because they have nothing within reach to slick the way, and neither seems keen on moving to retrieve it. But both are enjoying the slow, lazy rutting, so they maintain it for a while.

That is until Nicky begins to heave out a heavy breath on each thrust, tiny whimpers escaping occasionally, and Joe knows this for the tell that it is—he has left his love untouched for long enough.

Nicky must be desperate, because where he usually trusts Joe to decipher his sounds, this time he deigns to speak.

“Toccami, amore, _per favore, per favore_ ,” Touch me, please, please he begs, his words a litany of urgent, frenzied pleas.

“You never have to beg for me, habibi,” Joe says softly, biting down on the meat of Nicolo’s shoulder just as he slides his hand those last few inches, takes the base of Nicolo’s already precum-wet cock in just two teasing fingers, and squeezes as he slides them the entire length.

Nicky cries out, his entire body jerking, both shoving back hard against Joe and bucking into his fingers.

“Ti chiederò sempre,” I will always beg for you Nicky whimpers, his movements quickening.

Joe can’t deny his own pleasure any longer—the press of Nicky’s plush cheeks around his cock, the warm, sweat-slick glide of it ratcheting pleasure within his gut.

“Tell me,” he grunts, thrusting harder as he envelops Nicky’s cock in a full fist, pumping him with intent now.

Nicky is coming unraveled, his body shivering and his free hand gripping the pillow in a terribly shaking fist, and the sight does wonders for Joe—the knowledge that he is doing this to his beloved, bringing him rapture the likes of which no faith or earthly delight has ever or will ever bring him.

“Oh, Yusuf, così, proprio così, per favore!” Like that, just like that, please he nearly wails, his fingernails digging into Joe’s hip in prodding.

After nearly a millennium, Joe knows exactly how to time it—knows the signs of Nicolo’s ecstasy like he knows the battle-worn grooves in his scimitar. He knows that Nicky will grow still, his heaving chest the only movement as he closes his eyes, throws his head back, and shudders with pleasure.

Once Nicky goes still, spine arching and muscles going bow string tight, Joe has seconds to catch up to him, and he does, because he’s already close. He pumps Nicky’s cock hard and fast, thrusting equally as rapidly against him and whimpering as his own cock head slides in and out of the cleft. He has only enough sanity left to give Nicky a little twist at the tip, and then they’re both groaning and spasming and clutching desperately at one another.

Joe can feel his spend smearing between them, but instead he tries to focus on the steady, warm stream dripping down over his fingers and knuckles. He allows himself a continuous, jerky rhythm against Nicky, and slowly passes his thumb over the head of Nicky’s cock as they both twitch and jerk through intense aftershocks.

It all comes down on him then, as he’s holding Nicky, warm and pliant, in his arms—Andy is mortal. They’d all known it could happen at any time, of course, but it hadn’t in so, _so long_ that they’d grown complacent, comfortable. And then Nicky had taken a bullet through the skull, and Joe could do nothing but watch in horror. And he’s always counted heartbeats until his love returned to him, and it took two too many, and for a split second, that spiraling, oil-slick feeling had dripped down his vertebrae, and he’d thought his star, his sun, his moon, his kl shaa' was gone. (Arabic) Everything

“Hey, hey, amore, what’s wrong?”

Joe comes out of it with a jolt and realizes he’s sobbing quietly, face pressed desperately against Nicky’s shoulder. But he doesn’t stay like that long, because Nicky spins around on the bed and throws his arms around Joe’s neck, burying himself against all the little divots and curves that he so perfectly fits into.

“Sono qui, sono qui,” I'm here, I'm here he murmurs, his words an echo of those he’d spoken in the van only days ago, and just as they were then, they are a balm, an advancing cavalry chasing away Joe’s doubt and fear. He inhales of Nicky—hotel shampoo and love-dense sweat and breath of wine—and starts to believe the words.

“Sorry, my love,” he says, angling his chin and brushing his beard against Nicolo’s shoulder in a semblance of an apology.

“No, Yusuf, no, don’t do that, don’t apologize for being human. We need it, now more than ever. And I need you to know that... even though it is Andy’s time, you... you and me... our time will come _together._ I believe that. I’ve lost faith in more things in my time than most people will ever hold dear. But not that. _Not that,_ Yusuf. You and I... we’re of one soul. And a soul cannot be divided. We fall together, we rise together. Per sempre.” Forever

Joe smiles, and feels the warm tracks of tears beginning to dry.

“Per sempre,” he repeats, kissing Nicolo’s forehead.

There is a long pause, and Joe finds himself strengthened by Nicky’s presence, his breaths, that oh so reassuring _thump...thump...thump_ of his heart.

“Mimosas?” he asks into Nicky’s hair, and Nicky bursts into laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm on Tumblr](https://nemicoamatomio.tumblr.com//). Follow for premium Old Guard shitposts and extremely lukewarm takes.


End file.
